The little house where Peter lived was very
still--the trees in the orchard were stiff and dark beneath the stars.
Peter spoke in a whisper--"Good-night, Maradick, you've done me a lot of
good--I shan't forget it."
"Good luck to you," Maradick whispered back. Peter stole into the house.
The little drawing-room looked very cosy; the fire was burning, the lamp
lighted, the thick curtains drawn. Maria Theresa smiled, with all her
finery, from the wall.
Peter sat down in front of the fire. Maradick was right. One must have
one's hand on the bridle--the Rider on the Lion again. It's better that
the beast under you should be a Lion rather than a Donkey, but let it
once fling you off its back and you're done for. And Maradick had said
these things! Maradick whom once Peter had considered the dullest of his
acquaintances. Well, one never knew about people--most of the Stay-at-homes
were Explorers and vice versa, if one only understood them.
How still the house was! What was happening upstairs? He could not go and
see--he could not move. He was held by the stillness. The doctor would come
and tell him....
He thought of the toyshop--that blue ball--it would be the first thing that
he would buy for the boy--and then soldiers--soldiers that wouldn't hurt
him, that he couldn't lick the paint from--
Now the little silver clock ticked! He was so terribly tired--he had never
been tired like this before.
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